Quiet as the grave
There is a deathly hush about the house. People tiptoe from room to room, breathing shallowly and wincing at the creak of old floorboards. Even the dogs have their heads down, prowling the garden perimeter with low growls rather than their usual arrogant barks. So why are we keeping noise to the minimum?
Jason, the night lamber, is here.
Sarah, commenting on Mr Stuart's blog, thought 'A Tortured Corpse' was a great title for a noir thriller, and I have to admit she's right there. I think 'The Night Lamber' is another one, although anyone who's spent quality time in either Wales, New Zealand or Aberdeen may take a more sheep-molesting view of that. But what, actually, is a night lamber?
Well, where I come from (or where I ended up for a while) lambing happened in a big shed during the daytime. At about half past ten the lights were switched off, the doors pulled shut and the pregnant ewes left to cross their legs for the night. Whoever had drawn the short straw would come in at about five in the morning and, with a palpable sigh of relief the sheep would start giving birth. Generally speaking nothing appeared in the night and this strategy seemed infinitely preferable to the favoured option in Wales, which is to run yourself ragged and not sleep at all for the two to three weeks of lambing.
Here in the hills we run a research farm. That's not to say we do cruel and strange things to animals, just that we run several separate flocks with different breeds of sheep being raised for different purposes. There are a lot of sheep and they lamb over too long a period for anyone to consider staying awake all the time (not even John Rickards, who doesn't seem to sleep at all), so every year we get a vet student in to take the night shift. Since vet students are required to do some fieldwork as part of their training these days it's a bit of a win-win situation.
Jason came here last year for lambing, and he must have really loved it. The company made some monstrous cock-up which meant he didn't get paid until Christmas. But he's come back again this year. And he's asleep in the next door room (if my clackety old keyboard isn't keeping him awake). He'll get up about five, get something to eat and then head up to the sheds for seven. Twelve hours later he'll come back in again, expecting breakfast.
Now Jason is a nice bloke. He comes from Kingston, Jamaica and finds Wales to be cold and wet. He's polite and friendly and doesn't get in the way much. But he can't cook. He won't cook. He seems to survive on SPAR cooked chicken drumsticks and Ginsters pies. Originally we agreed to put him up on a bed only basis, but after a few days last year I was pressed into giving him breakfast - the poor lad was working a twelve hour overnight shift and then driving into Aberystwyth to get something to eat. So now I have to get up at half past six (which is a big strain for me, I can tell you) and make a big fry-up. And since it would be rude to make him sit there and eat alone, I'm forced to choke down sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato and beans too. Damn shame.
So for the next three weeks I'll be getting up at sparrow's fart and eating too much. Then during the day I'll be as quiet as a churchmouse that's been run over by a hearse. No loud music, just quiet contemplation and concentration.
I might even get some writing done.
Jason, the night lamber, is here.
Sarah, commenting on Mr Stuart's blog, thought 'A Tortured Corpse' was a great title for a noir thriller, and I have to admit she's right there. I think 'The Night Lamber' is another one, although anyone who's spent quality time in either Wales, New Zealand or Aberdeen may take a more sheep-molesting view of that. But what, actually, is a night lamber?
Well, where I come from (or where I ended up for a while) lambing happened in a big shed during the daytime. At about half past ten the lights were switched off, the doors pulled shut and the pregnant ewes left to cross their legs for the night. Whoever had drawn the short straw would come in at about five in the morning and, with a palpable sigh of relief the sheep would start giving birth. Generally speaking nothing appeared in the night and this strategy seemed infinitely preferable to the favoured option in Wales, which is to run yourself ragged and not sleep at all for the two to three weeks of lambing.
Here in the hills we run a research farm. That's not to say we do cruel and strange things to animals, just that we run several separate flocks with different breeds of sheep being raised for different purposes. There are a lot of sheep and they lamb over too long a period for anyone to consider staying awake all the time (not even John Rickards, who doesn't seem to sleep at all), so every year we get a vet student in to take the night shift. Since vet students are required to do some fieldwork as part of their training these days it's a bit of a win-win situation.
Jason came here last year for lambing, and he must have really loved it. The company made some monstrous cock-up which meant he didn't get paid until Christmas. But he's come back again this year. And he's asleep in the next door room (if my clackety old keyboard isn't keeping him awake). He'll get up about five, get something to eat and then head up to the sheds for seven. Twelve hours later he'll come back in again, expecting breakfast.
Now Jason is a nice bloke. He comes from Kingston, Jamaica and finds Wales to be cold and wet. He's polite and friendly and doesn't get in the way much. But he can't cook. He won't cook. He seems to survive on SPAR cooked chicken drumsticks and Ginsters pies. Originally we agreed to put him up on a bed only basis, but after a few days last year I was pressed into giving him breakfast - the poor lad was working a twelve hour overnight shift and then driving into Aberystwyth to get something to eat. So now I have to get up at half past six (which is a big strain for me, I can tell you) and make a big fry-up. And since it would be rude to make him sit there and eat alone, I'm forced to choke down sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato and beans too. Damn shame.
So for the next three weeks I'll be getting up at sparrow's fart and eating too much. Then during the day I'll be as quiet as a churchmouse that's been run over by a hearse. No loud music, just quiet contemplation and concentration.
I might even get some writing done.
Comments